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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967882">tatami stitch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/asynchrony/pseuds/asynchrony'>asynchrony</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Datekougyou | Date Tech, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:48:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/asynchrony/pseuds/asynchrony</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Fabric's more forgiving than metal, or rigid plastic, Kamasaki says. You can train it into shape. A bit like people.</p>
</blockquote>If you don't have the money for storebought dri-fit dye-sub uniforms, homemade is fine.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kamasaki Yasushi &amp; Moniwa Kaname &amp; Sasaya Takehito</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Datekou Week 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tatami stitch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for datekō week day 3: third-years</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>Spring must have fine things<br/>
To wear like other springs.<br/>
Of silken green the grass must be<br/>
Embroidered. <em>One and two and three.</em><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><hr/><p>
  <em>i.</em>
</p><p>At their first Inter-High Moniwa grinds to a halt just outside the double-doors. Their captain slams the door shut on their dented minibus, and the gardening equipment still in its back rattles; it looks wildly out of place among sleek vinyl-wrapped vehicles emblazoned with school pride in a thousand forms.</p><p>This isn't anything like middle school, he thinks. Sure, there were a few teams there who had the sleek, custom-made sports uniforms he's seeing everywhere here, but right down to individually tailored tracksuits or coats? Not a chance.</p><p>Coach Oiwake steps up beside him, follows his gaze. Points out one boy, then another, from schools with brass bands and cheerleaders where schoolbags are for textbooks and not health and safety regulations: this one has been scouted, already; this one’s a candidate for the all-Japan; this one’s a strong contender for next year’s top five spikers, and he’s only a rookie.</p><p>Moniwa knows what he's trying to say. Looks at the iron-on patch on his own jacket, straightens the collar of the worn shirt he's newly received.</p><p>Coach Oiwake leans in, almost confidential. Takahashi won’t be around much longer, he says; be ready to be subbed in today. A promise and a threat.</p><p>Kamasaki wanders up, an easy arm around his shoulders, a quick remark. They go in.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>ii.</em>
</p><p>It’s Kamasaki, larger than life or the constraints of first-year propriety, who has the idea to begin with.</p><p>Of course it is. He specialized in textiles from the start, none of the jockeying for woodwork or the coveted mechanic spots the other boys all want. When he introduces himself to the volleyball club, an upperclassman makes a comment about it.</p><p>He shrugs, one-shouldered yet somehow expansive. The joy of making, he says, is the same no matter what. Making a quilt. Making a desk. Making a point. Making the team.</p><p>In the end, the three first-years who stay on the team are the three who’ve never been worried about proving their manhood: Kamasaki himself; Moniwa, wide-eyed and skittish; Sasaya, too-expressive with hands and tone in a way that isn’t girlish but is disconcerting nonetheless, the butt of more than a couple of lesbian jokes he lets roll off his back.</p><p>Coach Oiwake surveys them, at the end of that first month. He nods, pleased. The Iron Wall, he says, always like that, with the capital letters. The Iron Wall isn’t about surpassing expectations, but eliminating them entirely from the equation.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>iii.</em>
</p><p>Why not? Why not, Sasaya says, one afternoon, Kamasaki darning the fraying hem of his tournament shirt. Does the math. Comes back in the next day, smudged printouts grabbed from the printer too soon: this moisture-wicking shirt, by the crate. Cheap and customizable. This four-way stretch nylon, a green he swears is a close enough match to their blazers. Fabric enough for shorts. This no-roll elastic. This embroidery thread to match. Sato-sensei willing to supervise the machine. Extra credit.</p><p>Interfacing, Kamasaki says. For collars. His gaze is distant and defocused in that way that means the cogs are turning.</p><p>Sasaya factors the collars in, and begins drafting the proposal.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>iv.</em>
</p><p>Even Sato-sensei is startled when Moniwa hauls in a sewing machine and sets it down. It’s a rainy morning, dark with the bluster of seasons to come, and it takes him a minute to remove it from the thick plastic bags it’s smothered in.</p><p>You’re not one of my kids, Sato-sensei says, but she looks like she already knows. Moniwa, right? You do need your own machine, for what you three are about to do.</p><p>It’s a compact, dense local-made machine, older than maybe Sato-sensei herself, purchased for pocket change at a pawn shop which swore that it ran when turned on, but refused to confirm if it ran <em>well</em>. They also didn’t ask Moniwa for ID, so he can’t complain: he knows he hardly looks like an adult, even on his most confident days.</p><p>Moniwa plugs it in, switches it on. The bulb flickers when Sato-sensei leans on the desk; the feed dogs move with an inconsistent, hesitant grind. The needle slips smooth and easy as it should, but the thread escapes with it, too.</p><p>Electronics, Sato-sensei murmurs, thoughtful. I’ll talk to Suzuki about getting you credit, too, but you won’t need any solder for this, if you’re lucky. Drops a textbook in Moniwa’s lap. Read the tension chapter, she says, and be careful with my copy.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>v.</em>
</p><p>Kamasaki patterns. It’s the stillest he’s ever been in their presence, drafting and re-drafting, finicky and precise. He’s quick with scissors, holding paper collars around their necks. Shakes his head, time and again. Makes a note with the pencil between his teeth, then starts again. French curves the point out a little more, then a little less. Fiddles with the fabric swatch, creasing it a hundred ways.</p><p>Eventually, he decides it’s time to make a sample. Attaches interfacing to the fabric with tiny glass-headed pins, a little shaky, cursing when red beads against his fingers with the same glossy translucency. Waits a moment, washes his hands. Tries again.</p><p>It’s about flexibility, he’d said, and would say again. Stability, so they look right; washability; range of motion; the way a first-year’s neck and that of a third-year fill out a shirt differently. The way we look, and the way we will.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>vi.</em>
</p><p>Sasaya models the jersey numbers in a program, leaning in close to the screen. Refines the 1 until he’s happy with the way the vectors that mark its edges look. A straight stitch around the edges; tatami stitch, broad and versatile, to fill in the space in between.</p><p>Loads the pantograph with the biggest ring the embroidery machine will take, and starts it up. Sato-sensei watches with the loose-limbed half-attention of a teacher who recognizes a careful student when she sees one. Mind your fingers, she says once, then leaves Sasaya to it.</p><p>The machine really does make an unholy noise. It’s so quick as to be frightening, punching through the shirt with enough force to warp it a little despite the stabilizer. Kamasaki makes to stop the machine early, but Sasaya shakes his head. Let it run, he says. We’ve already started. We may as well know.</p><p>It does, of course, turn out too stiff for use. Kamasaki slips it on anyway, pulls his arms up and back in the elegant arch he’s already developed when he spikes. The digit 1 strains at the fabric, twisting oddly across his chest.</p><p>He peels it off, presses it into Moniwa’s hands. You keep this one, he says. You’re the sentimental one. Our first try.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>vii.</em>
</p><p>Applique, then. Moniwa laser-cuts three acrylic digits in class one afternoon, without thinking too much about it: one, two, three. Attaches a few smaller layers, as an afterthought, contoured for grip.</p><p>It's a couple of days before Sasaya finds a polyester in the perfect green, then a few more for fusible webbing of the right kind. Moniwa presses down, left hand firm on the stencil, right hand on the rotary cutter.</p><p>They come out shockingly even. Kamasaki examines them, and approves them with a nod: One, and two, and three, he says. For the three of us.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>viii.</em>
</p><p>Kamasaki insists on hand-basting the numbers. There's no other way, he insists, to get it right; we're putting two different fabrics against each other, and they need to move together. He lines each one up four, five times on the floor. Straightens the shirt, then the number, then the shirt again. Pins, water-soluble marker, needle and thread. An iron, through a couple of their bento wraps since they'd forgotten they'd need protection.</p><p>Kamasaki shoos Moniwa away from the cranky old Toyota, too, coaxing the feed dogs into consistent movement with just enough pressure for a perfectly even zigzag around the edges. The shorts, I'll show you how to do, he says, and does.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>ix.</em>
</p><p>Sasaya dithers over the font for their school name, and eventually settles on one. 伊達工, in simple, abundant black; he does a dozen test runs before he's sure.</p><p>It's a quicker job, this, but it still takes a while. Sasaya dozes, half-watching the machine for the tell-tale signs of imminent disaster. He knows when each shirt is nearly ready: the even, rhythmic sound of kō being embroidered, three straight lines like the mortar between bricks in a wall.</p><p>The embroidery machine powers down. He waits the requisite minute, careful, then pulls the hoop off the pantograph and releases the shirt. A thought strikes him, then. He looks up the Mizunyoro logo the powerhouse in the nearest city has emblazoned on their jerseys. Makes a few tweaks, enough that up close it's an obvious parody; plots it quickly, then puts the shirt back on the hoop, centered on the left breast. The thread is still a little warm under his hands when he starts the machine again. </p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>x.</em>
</p><p>Kamasaki remakes the collars to match the numbers. It's easier this time, a firmer fabric and a more confident hand. Moniwa asks, once, watching him perfectly match the necklines on the shirts, how he does it. He laughs.</p><p>Fabric's more forgiving than metal, or rigid plastic, he says. You can train it into shape. A bit like people. But if you want it to be stiff and strong — here he flicks at the unyielding tip of a collar point — you'll need reinforcement.</p><p>By the time the shirts are done, one and two and three, they're well into training for the Spring High. Coach Oiwake examines them, holding them up to the light. Looks at Sasaya's figures.</p><p>These are good, he says. He doesn't try to keep his surprise out of his voice, or his pride. We'll use them next year, if you'd like to keep going; we can get funding for better materials, given these'll cost less than repairing the current ones.</p><p>Pauses, then. What a legacy, he says, to pass on. What a fine cohort. I couldn't be prouder.</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>The wind must sew with needles of rain,<br/>
With shining needles of rain,<br/>
Stitching into the thin<br/>
Cloth of earth, in,<br/>
In, in, in,<br/>
For all the springs of futurity.<br/>
<em>One, two, three.</em><br/>
— <em>Two Sewing</em>, Hazel Hall</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>with thanks to my 1970s japanese sewing machine, which has served me wonderfully, and to fahs, with whom i've had endless conversations about the class characters of all the hq schools, and of datekō specifically.</p><p>this fic can be retweeted <a href="https://twitter.com/emdashing/status/1371908646024536064">here</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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